The Man In Room D26
by r4ven3
Summary: Set early in S.9. This story takes place almost all off-Grid (my favourite place) Something is going down in Warwickshire, and there is a mystery to be solved. Someone - presumed dead - has gone missing. 8 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: All Spooks characters belong to Kudos, and any leftovers are mine.**_

_**I began writing this over 6 months ago, and am now letting it out of its cage. Not sure how I feel about it.**_

* * *

A nursing home in Warwickshire, UK – early April 2010:

Within a private room at the end of Corridor D, a man sits in a wheelchair overlooking the lush greenery outside his only window. The man's carer is of indeterminate age – somewhere between 35 and 50 – who handles the day to day care of the wheelchair-bound man …... a man almost too young to be this much trouble. Derek knows nothing of England, having been recruited from a group of newly trained staff, all immigrants from the Balkans. Derek is not his real name, but he has been advised to call himself Derek – in preference to Draco. Draco, Derek, does it even matter? The man in the wheelchair almost never speaks to him, and Draco Horvat no longer exists. Here he is known as Derek Horton …... _very_ British.

Derek has heard the man speak, and does not like his voice. He is what they call a toff, and it's the toffs who own everything, so that people like him are always poor, always sliding down the slithery pole of life, to collect with the rest of the worthless shit at the bottom.

New country, old outcomes.

Derek refuses to call the man `sir', as he has been instructed. He calls him David, which is the name the doctor calls him. `It is time for your wash now, David.' `Would you like something to read, David?' David always answers him politely, in that toff's voice of his.

By his second week working as a carer, Derek is certain that he hates David. Were he still living in Zagreb, he'd know someone who could dispose of this man, this man who is a drain on society's resources. It's just that this man is apparently worth something, and so Derek and his comrades are about to benefit from that.

The best kind of money is easy money.

* * *

The woman walking the corridors of Violet Rose Hutton House is no longer young, and is on the cusp of middle age. The squeak of her flat-soled lace-up shoes on polished linoleum has her smiling as she hurries from room to room during her morning shift. She associates the sound with diligence, speed, and self-reliance, all good qualities in her opinion. She wears an identity badge – _Therese James, Carers' Assistant_ – which sounds to her like she's languishing beneath the lowest rung of a rather long ladder, but she's happy with her job, especially since it's temporary and part time. In the pocket of her pale mauve uniform she carries the tools of her trade – a spiral bound note pad and retractable pen, which she uses just in case her phenomenal memory should ever let her down. Her work is so different from that which she is used to, but it is almost equally as rewarding. The pay is significantly less, but since she is not currently living in London, her expenses are few.

Her next call is on Mrs Lloyd – elderly, but sharp, her only disability being her legs, which give out from under her whenever she attempts to walk further than ten yards.

"The morning paper, dear, and a cup of tea. That's all I need today."

"You should have had your paper delivered with breakfast, Mrs Lloyd," Therese James says with a smile. "I'll get someone on kitchen staff to take care of the tea."

"Delivered? Then why haven't I -?"

"Here it is, Mrs Lloyd. You left it under the tray." Therese grasps the newspaper, and hands it to the elderly woman with sharp eyes, and an even sharper tongue. There are days when Terri looks forward to being old enough to get away with saying whatever comes into her head. She edits everything ten times before she speaks_._ She wishes she didn't. She wishes she'd been able to say what she thought when she'd first had the thought …... especially in `certain' situations, and with `certain' people.

With a `certain' person.

Well, that certain person is a long way away now, and she may as well forget about him. If she remains here in the West Midlands for long enough, then by the time she returns to London, they will have both moved on.

Next call is Mr Edwards, who asks her to buy his toffees at the same shop in Hartshill where he always bought them when he was ambulatory.

"And if you call back later, dear, I'll have a letter for you to post for me," he adds.

Mr Kramer only ever wants a selection of novels on ships and naval life, a supply of which Terri keeps on her moving trolley, which she keeps at the end of the corridor.

Mrs Bradshaw and the Misses Ann and Charlotte Davies always ask for magazines – women's magazines, with page after page of celebrity gossip. "We have to keep up with what's going on," Mrs Bradshaw has explained on numerous occasions. Terri can't see why anyone with a functioning brain would bother to read them.

When Terri reaches the room at the end of the corridor, she sees that it is empty. A quick look through the french windows tells her than Raymond Corrigan's carer has pushed him into the garden, where he sits – in his wheelchair – looking out at the flower beds. Raymond is only forty-four, not much older than Terri herself, and he is in the last stages of multiple sclerosis. Attached to his wheelchair is his oxygen supply, on which he relies to breathe. As Terri watches him, she notices him nodding, one of the few movements he can make with ease, but she can't see anyone out there with him.

Terri grabs a pile of magazines from the lower level of her trolley, and steps through the french windows, and then on to the pathway which leads to the edge of the lawn. She is only a few yards away from Raymond's wheelchair, when she notices the other person in a wheelchair, previously hidden by the oak tree at the end of the lawn. It is early April, and the sun is desperately trying to find a space between the clouds which cover the sky.

Terri stops, carefully observing the situation. The person in the other wheelchair is someone she's not seen before. It is impossible to determine the person's age or sex, given their head is heavily bandaged, and they are wrapped in a large tartan blanket. _If I didn't know better, I'd think they're trying to hide their identity_, is Terri's first thought, but she immediately discounts it. It's a ridiculous thing for her to have thought. She's not in London. Were she, the thought may be warranted, but this in the West Midlands, just outside Nuneaton in Warwickshire. This is a peaceful place, filled with the elderly, the dying – at least, those who can afford to die in a private nursing and convalescent home, such as this one – and those who need an extended stay after a long illness or accident. It appears that the new patient (Terri can't quite bring herself to think of the residents as clients) belongs to the latter group.

Terri quickly moves to Raymond's side, offering him a selection of magazines.

"You said you liked the organic farming magazines, Raymond," she says, placing two of them on the tray in front of him. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Looking into Raymond's very alert brown eyes, she sees him close his eyes, and move his head slightly to the left, which is how he indicates `no'. He has his own personal carer who reads to him each morning, and Terri only ever offers because she believes it to be the polite thing to do. She then turns to the other person in the wheelchair under the oak tree.

"Would you like something to read?" Terri offers, her voice bright, but not too bright. She knows that anyone resident at Violet Rose is unlikely to be happy about it. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"The name's Amanda," the mummy-like person answers from the shadows, where this woman's face is hidden. Her voice is gruff and abrupt, and it sends a chill through Terri's body. There is _something_ about that voice. "Anything will do," Amanda continues, "so long as it's not bloody _Horse And Hound_. I despise hunting."

The woman, Amanda, very slowly turns her head so that Terri can see her eyes. The bandages leave only her eyes, nostrils and mouth free, but there is no doubt in her mind about the identity of this woman …... an identity which is impossible, given Terri had attended her funeral only three weeks earlier.

Terri is momentarily distracted as Bernie, Raymond's personal carer, returns, and disengages the brake on the wheelchair, and then turns to look at Terri. "`rright?" he says in his thick Liverpool accent. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I have," Terri replies, but only loud enough for the mummified woman to have heard her. "I gave Raymond some new magazines," she says to Bernie. "Among them is the newest edition of _The Organic Way_. You might like to go through it with him. He didn't want me reading it." She smiles down at Raymond, who smiles back.

"That's cos of all that dirty talk of drilling and bedding and fertilising," Bernie says. "Only we blokes can handle it. Isn't that right, Ray?"

Terri waits until Bernie and Raymond are out of earshot, before she turns towards the woman in the other wheelchair, and sees the familiar pair of eyes on her. "Ros?" she asks hoarsely. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same thing of you."

They stare at one another, neither having expected to see the other. Terri had believed she'd never again see this woman, and so she is having great difficulty in finding something appropriate to say to her. What do you say to someone who has already died – twice?

"So …..." Ros begins, a slight smile spreading her lips in that familiar thin line. "You're either here undercover to keep an eye on me, or you and Harry have had a lovers' tiff. Which is it?"


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thank you to all readers and reviewers of the 1st chapter. I hope what comes in subsequent chapters does not disappoint. I have to warn that at times this story strays into farce - more for my own entertainment than anything else ... I hope you'll be forgiving.**_

* * *

By the time she gets back to her bedsit, Ruth's mind has been spinning for hours, and she is exhausted from her efforts to make sense of it all. She had been unable to speak to Ros for long, so that when her shift had ended at one o'clock, she had sought her out in her own room, and they had briefly caught up. Ruth still feels disoriented, like someone had just told her that she was adopted, and the couple who had brought her up had not been her real parents. She makes herself an omelette, eats it, all the time contemplating whether she is in fact eating lunch or dinner. Deciding that it is dinner, she cleans up, and then runs a bath for herself.

It is while she is lying back in the bath, with only her head above the water, that she allows herself to revisit her conversations with Ros..

* * *

"I'm …... I'm having some time away from the Grid and London," she'd said, when Ros had mentioned she and Harry having a lovers' tiff, which was rather too close to the truth for her to openly acknowledge it. "I have quite a lot of leave owing."

"Most people don't work while they're on leave."

"I needed something to do, and it's only part time. It's so …... different to the service. No stress or pressure, no bombs, no terrorists, no …... I was about to say no deaths, but that's not completely true. I've only been here ten days, and there's already been one death."  
"What about Harry?"

"What about him?" Ruth just hadn't been in the mood to discuss Harry, and especially not with Ros.

"You. Him. I thought you were an item."

Ruth had shaken her head, and held in the tears which were just behind her eyelids. She hadn't dare go into his marriage proposal – at Ros' funeral, for a woman who hadn't been dead after all – and the strange things they'd said to one another afterwards.

"We move on from this," he'd said, and she'd wondered how it was possible for a man to propose marriage one minute, and then blithely move on in the next. He must be so cold and shut down.

_We both are._

And then Ruth had made some comment to him about them being fine as they are – _close_ as they are, _together_ just as they are, which she knows is not even near the truth. She longs for closeness with Harry …... yearns to touch his bare skin …... privately dreams of intimacy with him, while at the same time knowing that together they are simply incapable of that. They are both too damaged.

_Or are we?_

"You had a funeral, Ros."

"What you're asking me is why am I not dead."

Ruth had nodded, and then Ros' carer had turned up to wheel her back to her room. It had been two hours later that Ruth had found Ros alone in her room.

"The short answer is that I'm on a reconnaissance mission. This …... these bandages are all for show. They're part of my disguise."

"You were not injured in the bombing?"

"Not exactly. The injuries I received were not as extensive as these bandages would indicate. There was an exit door from the corridor Andrew and I were in."

"The Home Secretary?"

"Yes. Andrew Lawrence. I dragged him through it, and then we fell around ten feet to the laundry chute."

"You fell into the hotel's laundry chute?"

"Yeah. Lucky, eh?"

"So not only did you survive, but you were not even injured."

"Slow down, there, Ruth …... I can call you Ruth, can't I?"

"I'm using a legend while I'm here, just in case," Ruth says, grabbing her identity badge, and showing it to Ros. "Most people call me Terri."

Ros makes a face. "Ugh," she says. "I prefer Ruth."

"So do I, but …..."

"Anyway," Ros had continued, "I broke my left wrist, sustained massive bruising on my left thigh, and my left knee may be completely buggered. The Doc doesn't know for sure until the swelling goes down. The bandaging is chiefly to hide my identity, so that I can do my own investigating. You'd be amazed what people say in my presence, assuming I'm little more than a vegetable. "

Ruth had taken a while to take it all in. "So …... why are you here? Why are you not in London?"

"Ah," Ros had replied, "that's because Andrew is missing."

"_What_? How can he be missing? His DNA was found, and it was assumed he had died …... along with you."

"Never believe everything you're told, Ruth. When we landed in the laundry skip at the end of the chute, I hit the bottom first, and Andrew landed on top of me."

"Was he injured?"

"I've no idea. He shouldn't have been. He was paralysed, and I broke his fall for him, and ended up with these injuries. He, on the other hand, should have been fine. I passed out. When I awoke, I was covered in masses of sheets, my body felt like I'd lived through a bombing, and Andrew was nowhere to be seen."

Ruth had contemplated Ros' words, willing Andrew to suddenly appear at the door, all smiles, saying, `This is cool.'

"The thing is," Ros continued, "…... and I've only ever told this to one other person …... while I was waking up after being out to it, I heard men's voices …... two different voices. They were deep voices, guttural – German, Russian, Balkan – I'm not sure of the language they spoke. I wasn't at my best at the time. The hotel laundry is in the basement, and so wasn't affected by the bombing. I assumed the voices belonged to laundry workers."

"You think he was abducted?"

"Yes. I can think of no other possibility."

"So …..." Ruth had lowered her voice, suddenly aware that she and Ros were openly discussing a sensitive issue of national security. "Was Harry the other person you told?"

"No. He thinks we're both dead. The only person I've spoken to is Hamish Clothier, the PM's Private Secretary."

"That …... may not have been the best idea, Ros."

"Why? I wanted to speak to Harry, but Clothier told me he was busy with the aftermath of the bombing."

"Yes. He _was_ busy at the time." _And grief-stricken, and distracted, and somewhat all-over-the-place._

"Hamish Clothier assured me that only the PM's immediate staff would know."

"So that you could go undercover as a vegetable, and sniff out where they're keeping Andrew Lawrence?" Ruth had said, brightening at the prospect of being involved in a conspiracy.

"Something like that, yes."

"So, the obvious question has to be …... why here? Why not Kent, or Scotland, or Wiltshire?"

Ros had sighed heavily, her mouth twisting, as best as it could be twisted, considering the limitations of the bandaging of her head and face.

"While I was still laid up in a private hospital in North London, Hamish Clothier visited me, telling me that Andrew had been seen."

"Seen?"

"The ambulance driver had mentioned to the doctor at the private nursing home in Warwickshire, where Andrew was taken, that he thought he recognised the man on the stretcher. He spoke to the treating doctor, who then spoke to whoever was in charge of the delivery, and then that ambulance driver disappeared, and hasn't been seen since."

"The doctor?"

"No-one knows who he or she is, or the identity of the nursing home. Would you put your hand up were you that doctor?"

"You think it's this nursing home? At one time or another over the past ten days, I've visited all the residents here, and I haven't seen anyone who even remotely resembles Andrew Lawrence."

"It's the most likely," Ros had said, her voice quiet. "It's the biggest, and it has doctors visiting daily, and it's set back from the road, and there is woodland all around it."

Ruth had then had what could only have been called a flash of inspiration.

"But …..." Ruth added, her voice little more than a whisper, "before I applied for the job here, I applied at Maplethorpe House, which is on the road heading towards Tamworth, just outside Wood End. It's smaller than this place, but is more remote, and is hidden from view by woodland. Even if you drove past it, you wouldn't know it was there. Apparently, it's rather exclusive. Only the very wealthy can afford it."

"Those who can keep secrets."

"Yes," Ruth had replied. "Them."

* * *

After her conversation with Ros, Ruth had taken the bus back into Nuneaton, her mind churning with words and images. As much as she wanted to get involved, she equally wanted to leave it all with Ros, someone with years of field work behind her. Ruth knows that she and field work are an uncomfortable and unpredictable pairing.

She had been climbing the stairs to her second floor bedsit, when the woman who lives in the flat nearest the building's entrance had called out to her from her open door.

"Is your name Ruth?"

Ruth had stopped on the fourth stair, and turned. She knew that to admit to her real name could be risky, but it could also mean …...

Well, what could it mean? That Harry had been looking for her? _In your dreams, Ruth._

"Who wants to know?" Ruth had replied, warily.

"There was a man here earlier. About an hour ago. He was looking for a woman called Ruth, and the description he gave fitted you perfectly."

"What did he look like?" Ruth knew that the person looking for her could be someone connected with the abduction of the Home Secretary. _How, Ruth? Who knows you've been talking to Ros?_ She very slowly stepped back down the stairs, bringing her closer to the woman in the front flat.

The woman, sensing a captive audience, leaned against her door jamb and smiled. "Well, for a start, he was very well dressed. I thought to myself, `This chap is no private detective. He's a professional. Lawyer, doctor, something like that.' Then I thought to myself, `Why would he want to speak to that woman in number 2C?' Not running away from your hubby, are you, dear?"

"No. Not exactly."

As Ruth remembers what the woman in the front, downstairs flat said next, she sinks into the bath water until she is fully submerged. By the time she comes up for air, she has decided what she will do next. She quickly pulls the plug, and steps out of the bath, grabbing a towel from over the towel rail, and wrapping it around herself.

"Mostly, I noticed he was wearing a suit and tie," the woman had said, and it is then that Ruth knew the identity of her visitor. "And he was smart looking, and confident, like he's used to ordering others about. Bit if a charmer he was, too."

"In his 50's? Balding fair hair?" Ruth had added, and her neighbour had nodded.

Once she is dressed in track pants and a thick jumper, Ruth pulls on her slippers, and then heads to her small table next to her very small kitchen. There, she picks up the business card which her male visitor had left with her downstairs neighbour:

_James Valentine_

_Director_

_Valentine Industries_

In the top right hand corner of the business card is a mobile phone number. It is one she doesn't recognise, which means that he has a separate SIM card for each of his legends, a necessary part of separating one's true identity from that of the legend.

Taking a deep breath, she dials the number, and waits for him to answer.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello. Valentine speaking," Harry's voice answers.

"Hi …... it's me. My neighbour told me …..."

"How did you know it was me?" Harry's voice is much softer and gentler than the voice he'd used when he'd answered the phone.

"It was the way she described you. She said you acted like you were used to ordering people around."

"She did? Am I …... like that?"

"Of course you are, Harry. You know you are."

What follows is a rather long silence. Ruth thinks of things to say to fill the aural gap, but it is Harry who has come looking for her, not the other way around.

"You sound angry with me," he says at last.

"No …... not now. I was. I was …... I had to get away from you, or …..."

"I …... I made the wrong move at the wrong time, didn't I?"

_More like the right move at the wrong time_,_ and in the wrong way,_ she thinks.

"Harry …... can we not talk about this now? I ….."

"Very well, Ruth, but we have to talk about it some time soon. We never seem to get any time to ourselves while we're in London."

"So you thought you'd corner me while I'm out of my comfort zone."

"No …... I thought we could both do with a day or two away from our normal environment."

"Can we meet? I mean, we have to meet …... face to face. Something has happened."

* * *

Around forty minutes later, Harry knocks on Ruth's front door. It is three weeks since she last saw him, and despite her best intentions to protect herself from whatever it is which continually draws her to him, she is more than a little pleased to see him again. He has brought a take-away Indian meal for two, and two bottles of light red wine.

"I already had dinner," Ruth comments, as he places the boxes of the Indian meal on the table.

"When? It's only eight o'clock."

"I had an omelette at four-thirty."

Harry looks up at her and smiles. She cannot say no to him when he looks at her like that. They have not touched, and if this goes as Ruth plans, they will not have cause to touch one another at all while he is in her flat. She knows that inviting Harry into her temporary home is risky, but she is far too drained by her meeting with Ros to have gone out anywhere to meet him.

Ruth watches him closely as he plates up for them both, and then opens one of the bottles of wine, pouring a little into each of two glasses. Ruth enjoys watching his profile, his lips pouting in concentration as he pours wine into the glasses. When he lifts a glass of wine to hand to her, she is momentarily embarrassed that she is still gazing at his face, and he smiles at her interest in him.

"You know that I watch you every chance I get," he says quietly, scooping his naan bread into his curry.

_We're on dangerous ground already, and he's only been here ten minutes._

'Well, you shouldn't," Ruth replies.

"You can't keep me at arm's length forever, Ruth."

"I know, but there's something I have to tell you, and that is more important than …... us."

"So, there's an us?"

"I …... suppose there is …. in a way. It's just that what I have to tell you surpasses anything else we may have to talk about."

"Will I be upset by this news?"

"It's not about us, Harry. It's work."

"Fire away."

"It's rather …... dramatic, and life-changing."

Harry puts down his fork, and takes a quick swig from his glass of wine. "I'm ready. What is it?"

Ruth sits back in her chair while she tells Harry the story of her day. When she gets to the part where she'd met Ros – wise-cracking, still-very-much-alive Ros – Harry's face pales, and he sits up straight, his eyes wide and staring at her.

"But we were told her body had been found, Ruth."

"Who told you?"

"The captain of the rescue team …... and the police, although to be fair, the police relied upon the rescue squad for their information. He said that Ros' body was found, but was in too distressing a state for anyone to identify her. She had to be identified using her DNA. Same with Andrew."

"Andrew is alive, and in a nursing home in Warwickshire."

"Is that why you came here to spend your leave?"

"No, Harry. I knew none of this until late this morning. Why did you come to Warwickshire?"

"To see you."

Ruth sighs heavily, and looks down at her plate of food. She looks up suddenly to see Harry watching her, a few tears running down his cheeks unchecked. Seeing her watching him, he quickly lifts his hand to wipe the tears away.

"It's alright, Harry. It's normal for you to feel something."

Ruth can see that Harry is experiencing difficulty maintaining his composure. He had loved – loves – Ros like a daughter, and her (apparent) death had devastated him, which she is sure had fueled his strange proposal of marriage. In this moment, as she watches him staring at some point behind and above her head, while he breathes deeply to maintain control, she wishes she had – in that mad moment when he'd whispered his proposal close to her ear – taken a giant leap of faith and said yes.

Ruth watches Harry as he calms himself, something he has had to do many times, she is sure.

"What do you suggest we do next, Ruth? We can hardly get CO19 to raid the place."

"I don't think a raid would work, even if we did. This operation requires stealth."

Harry's eyes settle on her, and he smiles …... the personal smile he keeps just for her. "What do you suggest?"

"I've already rung Tariq. I hope you don't mind. I thought of running it by you first, but we may not have a lot of time in which to act. I asked him to check all patient admissions and discharges for Maplethorpe House during the past two weeks. I don't expect Andrew's presence there will be officially recorded, so I also asked him to see if he could hack into the CCTV, both inside and outside the buildings. He has yet to get back to me."

"And if he is there, and we know where he is?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead yet. Ros wants to be involved, but I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"She feels responsible," Harry muses, before he again tucks into his curry.

* * *

Next day, Ruth's shift does not begin until midday, but she arrives at Violet Rose Hutton House at eleven, chiefly so she can organise the sweets and drinks and magazines for her clients. Having quickly done that, she heads to the tea room, her mind mulling over the conversation she'd shared with Harry the night before. Noticing her stifling a yawn, he'd made his excuses and left early, asking her to keep in touch. She'd seen in his eyes a need for something more from their interactions. She needed something more – a touch, a hug, perhaps a kiss - but right now is not the time. Perhaps after Andrew Lawrence is found. Perhaps once they are back in London. Perhaps sometime soon.

Ruth suddenly pays attention to something the other person in the tea room is telling her.

"Then I turned the corner into D corridor, and there was this bloke sitting outside one of the rooms. He was wearing a black suit and tie. Secret service for sure."

"Which room?" Ruth asks, as she heads to the urn to make herself a cup of tea.

"Room 26. It was D26."

Bingo! Darren Glassman works in maintenance at both Maplethorpe and Violet Rose. Ruth had not even considered him as a likely source of information. _Thank you, Darren._

"Have you been in the room?" She asks, trying to sound disinterested, while all the while her heart is thumping.

"Not yet. I have to look at the cable connection on the TV in that room, and there's a plumbing issue in the loo. I told them I'd be back for that tomorrow."

Ruth sits at the table opposite Darren, and sips her tea, hoping the usually quiet Darren will change his habits of a lifetime and freely babble on about Room D26 at Maplethorpe House. Alas, he begins to talk about his girlfriend's cats, and so Ruth tunes out, her mind racing ahead of her.

Twenty minutes later, Ruth is on duty as Therese James, and she goes about her job diligently, while her mind digests the phone calls she'd made between her time in the tea room, and beginning her shift.

"You need to concentrate your focus on that room, and the avenues to and from that room."

"I know, Ruth. I was going to ring you this afternoon, once I have an idea of how the shifts work."

"Is there any vision inside the room itself?"

"None at all. Sorry."

"That's not your fault, Tariq."

And she'd also made a quick call to Harry, informing him of her findings. He'd waited on the other end of the phone, and Ruth could almost hear the machinations of his mind, turning and whirring. What he then suggested had Ruth protesting, with him ignoring her protests. He really could be the most infuriating man!

When Ruth reaches Amanda's room, she sees she has a visitor.

"Sorry, I didn't know you had company. I'll come back later."

Ruth turns to leave the room, when Ros speaks.

"Bloody hell, will you just come here?"

Ruth turns back, and re-enters the room, closing the door behind her. Sitting in a chair across from Ros' wheelchair is Harry, his face turned towards Ruth, a smile on his face.

"Is there something you need, Amanda?" Ruth asks, stopping short of both she and Harry.

"I need you to join us. And don't stand there. Sit on the sofa next to James. I'm sure he won't bite …... at least not during daylight hours."

Ruth hesitates, and then, noticing how Harry moves over slightly, allowing her a space next to him, she moves to the sofa and sits, leaving a rather wide space between them. Looking up at Ros, she catches her rolling her eyes.

"Hello again, James," Ruth says quietly. Harry smiles at her and nods. "So …... what's the hurry?"

"What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" Harry asks her, his face serious.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, Ruth takes a long time to fall asleep. Harry had insisted he drive her back into Nuneaton at the end of her shift, and then he had insisted he buy her dinner.

"Just take-away, Harry. I'm just not up to eating out."

So for the second evening in a row, Harry had turned up at her bedsit at a little after 7 o'clock, carrying a take-away dinner – pizza this time – and two bottles of dry white wine. This time, he knows where it is she keeps the plates, wine glasses, kitchen roll, and the corkscrew, and he makes himself at home, plating up for them both, and then pouring wine into their glasses. When he lifts his wine glass towards her, and says, "To us," Ruth is about to scold him, but decides to let the gesture slide. After all, the success of the next day's venture will mostly depend upon how well they each trust the other.

When Ruth munches on her piece of vegetarian pizza without speaking, Harry watches her, his face worried. "Are you afraid about tomorrow, Ruth?"

"Yes, I am."

"I'm sure you'll be safe. I wouldn't want you involved if I thought you'd be in any danger."

"It's not _my_ safety which concerns me," she replies quietly, looking up at him.

He watches her for a long moment. "You're worried about …... _me_?"

Ruth nods, still watching him.

"I've been involved in operations the likes of which would turn your hair grey, Ruth."

"I know that, but you're no longer …... a man of thirty."

"That's not very flattering of you."

"I'm not …... trying to flatter you, Harry. I just want you alive and well at the end of it."

"Why? Why is my wellbeing so important?"

"Your country needs you."

"Anyone else?"

"Your children need you."

Harry has put down his glass, and is sitting at the table, leaning towards her, his weight on his elbows, while he watches Ruth squirm under his scrutiny. At last, her eyes meet his.

"I …... need you," Ruth whispers.

Harry's smile begins slowly, and then it widens, and Ruth is smiling back. He has decided this might be the right time to get up, and walk around to Ruth, and kiss her. He is already on his feet, and has taken a step towards Ruth's chair, when her phone rings.

"Hello," she says, visibly disappointed at the interruption. "It's for you," she says, handing the phone to Harry. "It's Tariq."

"How does he know …...?"

"I told him you were here."

Harry takes the phone from her, and sits back in his seat while he takes the call. Tariq does most of the talking, and after around fifteen minutes he hangs up, handing the phone back to Ruth. "There's been a slight change of plan," he says, before he shares with Ruth what Tariq had told him.

"The first thing – and perhaps best thing – is that Tariq has identified the bank account of a group calling themselves `New Ustash'. That is the name currently being used by the latest group of far right activists to splinter from the original pro-nationalist movement in Croatia, the Ustaše, which is an illegal group. They are desperately in need of financial backing, and without large injections of funds, they are powerless."

"So they kidnapped Andrew, and are planning to …... Harry, don't tell me they are planning to sell him to the highest bidder. Why don't they import and sell drugs, like every other illegal group?"

"Probably because every other off-shore illegal group are into drug running. They have Andrew – probably by accident, rather than design - and he's worth something. Tariq rang me to say he has identified a large transaction of Euros from an account originating in Chechnya, to the account of the New Ustash in the Caymans. He has managed to delay the money going into the target account, but he can only hold it up until the end of trading tomorrow, before suspicion will be raised. So …..."

"We have to act tomorrow."

"The sooner the better. My aim now is to get our plan underway first thing tomorrow. I'll have to ring Ros, and she can inform her carer, while I suggest that you ring this maintenance fellow."

"Darren?"

"Yes. Do you have his number?"

"No, but it will be easy enough to get it. I can claim I need him to do some emergency work for me. I'll do that now."

Ruth and Harry each make their phone calls, and by the time their plans for the next day are firmed, they have finished the two bottles of wine, and eaten the rest of the pizza, cold by the time they demolish the last slices.

"We'll need an early night tonight, Ruth." Harry suggests, once he checks the time on his watch.

"Would you like to stay here tonight?" The words are out almost the second she'd had the idea. "It might make coordination easier if at least two of us arrive at the same time."

Harry is looking at Ruth with bright eyes, and she sees something there which has always bothered her, but on this night, no longer does. He wants her, as a man wants a woman, and this wanting no longer seems out of place to her. If she's being honest, she wants him just as much. Would it be possible for them to launch into a relationship of intimacy this easily? Is this all it ever needed? For him to ask, and she to say yes?

"I hope you don't think my offer inappropriate, Harry."

"No, I don't think that. I'm just wondering where I should …... sleep. The sofa in your sitting room can barely sleep a child, and I'm …..."

"A grown man."

"Yes."

"There's only my bed, Harry, and you are welcome to share it. With me. I don't mean for …... I don't think it a good idea to be doing …..."

"What you're asking me is to share just your bed …... is that what you're saying?"

"Yes."

Ruth is at the sink, rinsing the few dishes they'd used, and Harry has stepped into her kitchen alcove with her, making the space seem impossibly cramped. He is standing behind her when he speaks, so close that she can feel his breath on the back of her neck.

"Ruth …... as much as I want to say yes, I won't, and it's not because I don't want to. It's because I do. I don't think I could sleep in the same bed with you without …..." Ruth turns slowly to face him. There is barely any space between their two bodies. "... without doing this."

And Harry leans across the space between them, and very gently places his mouth on hers. Ruth is momentarily shocked. They have not talked about this. She and Harry never kiss without a good reason, and then it has to be a very, _very_ good reason. And – _God _– he is a wonderful kisser!

Ruth's resolve to keep her distance from Harry breaks, and she presses herself against him, and winds both her arms around his neck, as the kiss intensifies. She feels his hands on her waist, and then one hand presses against the small of her back, and the other snakes down to the curve of her buttocks. She feels herself murmuring against his mouth, as their tongues meet. She slides the fingers of one hand into the long hair which curls on to his collar, while her other hand glides across his shoulder to his upper arm.

It is she who presses her body harder against his, and it is she who smiles as she kisses him harder, and it is she who moans when she feels him swelling against her stomach. If this is the reason they can't share a bed, then it is the stupidest reason for not doing anything in the history of the world. She can also feel Harry's hand massaging her bum, around and around in circles, occasionally pulling her closer to him, while his other hand has slid inside her shirt, where he is slowly opening her buttons, exposing her bra. He feels _so_ good …... so very, very good.

Two things happen simultaneously, two things which bring them up with a start. Harry's hand has found a way inside her bra, and his fingers connect with her nipple, brushing lightly over it until it is fully erect. At the same time, Ruth has pushed her hand between them, and very lightly glances her fingers along the outside of his trousers, along his hardened length.

The kiss ends, and they pull away suddenly, looking into the eyes of the other. Harry's hand is still inside her bra, and her hand stills, her fingers still resting on him on the front of his trousers.

"Ruth," he gasps, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers. "As difficult as this is for me to do, I am going back to my hotel." Harry removes his hand from inside her bra, and begins to close the front of her shirt, while Ruth takes both her hands, and rests them on his waist. "If …... if tomorrow goes well, we can continue this tomorrow night …... after a victory dinner."

"Just so long as the victory dinner doesn't take place in a hospital room somewhere."

"Oh, ye of little faith, Ruth. The extraction of our esteemed former HS will be a doddle."

Famous last words.

Later, after Harry had left, kissing her quickly and chastely on the lips before he turned to leave, Ruth can only think that they have again made a poor decision. She hopes that they do not live to regret not having taken the chance to spend the night together. What if this night is to be the last night for her on this earth? What if it is his?

She is on the verge of ringing him, asking him to please come back and spend the night with her, when she allows her Grid self to take over. She cannot be mooning over Harry when there is an important job to be done.


	5. Chapter 5

Corridor D - Maplethorpe House – Warwickshire – next morning – 7:18 am:

Luka Pavić, whose identity badge claims – falsely – that he is Luke Pavy, Special Branch, checks his watch, noting he has just under an hour until his shift ends. The night shift is always the worst, and on a dull and uneventful night – as this one has been – time drags. Still, his sacrifice will be worth it. The man in the room outside which he sits has been fed, washed and dressed for the day, and Draco has gone to the staff loos down the back of the building. Draco is a fool. He sees his client as a person to please, in case he can be useful further down the track. The man from the English government is money. He is not a man. Think of him as human, and mistakes will be made.

Luka hears the door open from further down the corridor. That's the tradesman's entrance, and either it's a stupid place to have the tradesman's entrance, or it's the wrong room to be holding this Englishman from the government. He turns towards a sound from behind him, but acts too slowly. A thud on his skull instantly removes all his senses.

* * *

Darren Glassman - handyman, plumber, electrician, Mr Fix-it – stands staring at his female companion. Terri James is clearly more than just a sweet English woman with striking blue eyes and a caring nature. She is also a bit on the scary side. When she'd asked him for his largest shifting spanner, he'd (quite stupidly, it appears now) believed she wanted it so that she could help him with the plumbing. Now, she's opening the door of D26, and summoning him inside. Of course, he's not about to do any maintenance today. Today, he is earning himself an easy £1,000, which is a lot of money to him. He quickly follows her into the room.

Andrew Lawrence is alone in the room, and he is sitting on his bed, waiting for his carer to return from taking a phone call.

"Andrew?"

The voice is female, and there is something familiar about it. He slowly turns to see the senior intelligence analyst from Section D. He is on quite a cocktail of medications, so her name escapes him, but she notes the recognition in his eyes.

"Andrew," Ruth repeats. "We are here to get you out of this place. You're being held captive, and you are about to be sold on. Do you understand me?"

Andrew nods slowly, although he wonders what the young chap behind the Section D analyst is doing, stripping off his clothes. He hopes this is not a prank by some of his mates from university. No, no, no. Not university. Whitehall. Hardly Whitehall behaviour, though, is it? Then again …... there was that party last year at the London flat of the Foreign Minister …...

"You have to change clothes with this man. He is staying in your place, and you must come with me."

* * *

Harry is sitting in the van he'd stolen from the back lot of a used car yard. He hadn't the time to hire one, so he is `borrowing' this Ford Transit van, which he'd found – fortuitously – with the keys secreted above the sun visor. He'd helped Ros out of the vehicle, and then into the wheelchair. He busies himself fiddling under the bonnet of the vehicle, while he keeps his eyes on Ros' approach to the front entrance of Maplethorpe House. A member of security helps her through the door, and then, as planned, she occupies him with questions about where the recreation room can be found. Trusting Ros to handle the situation with her usual aplomb, Harry closes the van's bonnet, and then hurries around to the back of D wing, where he finds the tradesman's entrance. He shakes his head in bewilderment, wondering why the management committee of this facility did not think to put a security guard on this door. Were he up to no good, he'd hardly try entering the place through the front door.

Hurrying inside, Harry turns the corner in Corridor D to see a figure in a black suit, slumped on the floor, blood oozing from a wound on his skull. Noting that the nearest door is D26, he bends down to grab the unconscious man under his arms, intending to drag him into Andrew Lawrence's room, when he hears movement behind him.

"Behind you," Ruth says, having opened the door to check that the corridor is clear for she and Andrew to leave.

With his hands still under the arms of the man in the black suit, Harry turns, but is too slow. He feels a thud behind his ear, and flops down on top of the unconscious man's body.

What Harry is unable to witness is Ruth's quick thinking, as she swipes out with the shifting spanner, collecting Derek Horton under the chin, sending him sprawling. It is not the blow with the spanner which knocks him unconscious, but his skull hitting the line of bricks under the window. He slides down the wall, and settles on the floor, his limbs spreadeagled.

Ruth's only concern is for Harry, so she opens the door to the room, and asks Darren to drag both unconscious men into Andrew's room. He and Andrew have already exchanged clothes, and Darren looks awkward in designer jeans, matched with a Burberry cashmere sweater.

"Slight change of plan here." Ruth watches as Darren easily slides both men along the floor, and into the room. "We're going to need you to come with us, Darren. It's not safe to leave you here with two unconscious men. Either one of them will wake first, and possibly kill you, or someone senior on staff will find you here with two unconscious men, and …..."

"I'll be blamed."

"I'm afraid so. I need you to bring Andrew's wheelchair into the corridor, and put the other man in it."

"That old bloke?"

"That old bloke, as you call him, is an MI-5 section head, and take it from me, he's not so old."

Fortunately, Darren doesn't comment further, or ask awkward questions. Ruth leads Andrew out through the tradesman's entrance, followed closely by Darren – still dressed in Andrew's clothes, which are a bit tight on him – pushing Andrew's wheelchair, in which slumps an unconscious Harry. Carefully, Ruth leads Andrew around the corner of D wing, and is relieved to see no-one else in the carpark, other than an irritated Ros, sitting in her wheelchair behind the van. Ruth is afraid for Harry – what if he doesn't wake up? It is then she decides that this is hardly the time for her to be going all Jane Eyre over him.

Ros takes in the situation quickly, shaking her head. "Bloody Harry," is all she has to say on the matter.

"Darren," Ruth says, "I need you to lift Harry into the van. Then the wheelchair goes in the back. Then we do the same with Ros. She can sit in the back seat with Andrew."

"Where do I sit?" Darren asks, realising that his own work van is to remain in the carpark …... at least until this little adventure has blown over.

"In the front with me. You're driving us to hospital."

"In Nuneaton?"

"If that's the closest, yes."

"But …... won't they …... the people at Maplethorpe …... guess we'd be headed there?"

"They will, yes, but while you're driving there, I'll be contacting someone in London to deal with the mess here."

Darren wants this whole crazy mess to be behind him – and that includes the clothes, although he has a sense that Krystal, his girlfriend, might like him in these clothes. After all, she's been trying to smarten him up for the past eight months they've been together, and all she's managed so far is to ensure that he wears clean jeans to the pub of a Friday night.

Darren breaks all known speed limits in his attempt to get them to George Eliot Hospital in Nuneaton, while only a part of him hears this crazy woman talking to someone called Lucas to whom she is rattling off orders about him sending a `clean up squad' to Warwickshire. Shit! He can't wait to tell Krystal, which will only be in ten minutes or so. Krystal is doing a double shift today, working in triage.

"You're never to repeat what you just heard, Darren. Do you know what a firing squad is?"

Jesus …... this woman, whoever she really is, has him barely able to speak. On top of that, Darren prays that his girlfriend will not laugh at him when she sees him. All the rest of them – the unconscious MI-5 bloke, the Whitehall bloke, the scary carer's assistant who is handy with a shifting spanner, the Croatian mafia – or whoever the hell they really are – none of them scare him as much as Krystal when she is in a mood.

* * *

Darren turns the van into the road which leads to the hospital at the same time Harry begins to wake up. Ruth turns in her seat to see Ros lay a gentle hand on Harry's arm.

"It's alright, Harry. Ruth's here to take care of you," Ros croons, before she looks up at Ruth, a sweet smile on her face. It is good to see Ros' face again, since she'd removed the bandages before she and Harry had turned up at Maplethorpe House.

Harry mumbles something, which sounds like, `Need Ruth', and then he falls back into unconsciousness. Ruth is relieved. The very last thing she needs is Harry blurting out something intimate about them while he's in a state of semi-consciousness. She watches him carefully, knowing that all the while, Ros is watching her watching Harry.

Next to Ros, Andrew Lawrence stares out the window, his face blank. Ros only hopes that the real Andrew is still somewhere inside his skin.

Once they pull up outside A&E, everything happens rather quickly, as hospital staff take over. Ruth instructs Darren to park the van, and then put Ros back in her wheelchair, and follow them inside, while she accompanies Andrew and Harry – the latter on a gurney – into the building.

* * *

Harry has been given a room for the night. He has woken, but he is in some pain, and he is annoyed. The treating doctor had assumed that Ruth and Harry are husband and wife, and so she sits in a chair beside his bed, holding his hand while he falls into a light sleep, a concession to the pain killers he's been given.

"How is he now?" the doctor asks, entering the room, and standing at the end of the bed, his bespectacled eyes on Harry's sleeping form. "That was some hit he took. How did it happen?"

"Have you signed the Official Secrets Act?" Ruth asks.

"Last year. We had some MI-6 chaps in here for a couple of nights. Looked like they'd been put through a blender, and then served up on toast."

"James – my husband – was attacked by a member of a Croatian terrorist organisation who have formed on British soil. And that's the truth," she smiles. "Usually I make something up, because the truth always sounds so improbable."

The young doctor smiles. "I heard that these Croation chaps were hanging out at Maplethorpe House. That seems like an unlikely place for terrorism."

"Oh …... I don't know. No-one would think of looking there for them, would they?"

"Your husband will probably only need one night in here, but I'll check him first thing in the morning. He'll need pain killers every 4 hours for a few days, and then he'll be as right as rain. He's pretty tough."

"I know he is. What about …... the Home Secretary?" Ruth asks warily.

"He's a different kettle of fish. I've arranged for him to be transferred to a private clinic in London. He's been given some rather heavy drugs, so he'll need to undergo a controlled detox. The woman in the wheelchair insists on accompanying him …... something about that hotel bombing last month."

"Yes," Ruth replies. "They survived it together."

"I'm glad she's with him and not me. She scares the pants off me!"

Ruth smiles as the doctor leaves the room, and then her attention again focuses on Harry. They now have so much to live for.

* * *

Darren runs across Krystal as he is about to leave A&E. He is still wearing the Home Secretary's clothes, and he really wants to see Krystal's reaction to seeing him wearing designer kit.

"Darren? Is that you, babe?"

Darren stands there – feeling like a regular twat – while Krystal walks around him, looking him up and down.

"Sorry, babe, but it's just not you. I think you should stick to your usual clothes."

And then she is gone, off to save lives. He stands there, looking down at himself, and wonders why he ever thought that he – Darren Glassman, aged 28 – could get away with looking like some guy who works in the City, and makes a gazillion pounds a year. He is, and always will be, a blue jeans and checked flannel shirt man, and he needs to accept that.


	6. Chapter 6

Ruth's bedsit in Nuneaton – 2 days later:

Ruth has only needed to visit Violet Rose Hutton House once more, chiefly to collect the things she'd left in her locker. She did that on the quiet the day before, leaving Harry to have an undisturbed afternoon nap in her bed. She'd handed in her resignation, seeing that in a day or so, she and Harry are planning to head back to London. She'd brought him back to hers on his discharge from hospital, and he hasn't left. The previous evening – his first night out of hospital – she had suggested he spend the night in her bed. He'd looked at her in a strange way, like she was speaking a language he didn't understand.

"I'm talking about you sleeping in my bed, Harry. _Sleeping_ …... nothing more."

"Will you be sleeping …... with me?"

"Yes. Is that alright with you?"

He'd smiled, and nodded, and so she'd poured him another cup of tea.

Bedtime had been strange. Her bedsit has a small bathroom, with a bath and handbasin and cupboard, with just enough space to hang a couple of towels, and for a chair over which to throw one's clothes. Ruth had run a hot bath for Harry, suggesting he have first bath, and she'd hop in after he'd finished.

He'd hesitated when she brushed past him on her way out of the bathroom, leaving him to his bath.

"Ruth," he'd said quietly, and so she'd turned to see him looking at her. "If you'd like to, you can join me in the bath."

"Harry …... I don't know if that's a good idea."

He'd watched her face as every reason she could conjure passed across her countenance. In the end, he didn't want to hear her excuses. He headed into the bathroom alone, while Ruth closed the door behind her after she left.

Ruth had stood just outside the bathroom door, listening to Harry lower himself into the bath. She heard his gasp as he found the water too hot, and then the water running as he added more cold. She wondered why she'd acted that way. Habit? Probably. Fear? No doubt.

It is then that Ruth decides she should not keep saying no to Harry. She could suddenly see how unfair it is to continue to hold him at arm's length with one hand, while her other hand fondles the front of his trousers.

In the bathroom, Harry slowly sank into the bath so that only his face was above the water. He felt frustrated and confused …... tired of having he and Ruth take three steps forward, and ninety-nine steps back. He closed his eyes, and attempted to empty his mind.

Ruth had undressed in the small alcove which housed her bed, and then she'd wrapped herself in her bathrobe, and gone back to the bathroom. Harry was already in the bath, his eyes closed, when she stood beside the bath, and dropped her bathrobe to the floor. By the time she took a step into the bath, he'd opened his eyes, his face registering a confused mix of shock and desire. When she'd climbed in, she sat in front of Harry, her back to him, so that when she sat down, the water just covering her breasts, she could lean back against him, while he wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin on her head. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt this warm, this cherished.

"Thank you," he'd whispered in her ear, his arms grasping her tighter. It took only a few minutes for them to relax in one another's presence.

"I've been acting unfairly around you," was all she said in explanation of her behaviour.

Once the water had cooled, they had both climbed out of the bath, and dried themselves, stealing glances at the other, and exchanging smiles. Due to the strength of his medication, Harry's body did not react to her presence, and Ruth didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. She knew they had time ahead of them for intimacy, and they had no need to rush things. Harry had dressed for bed, and crawled under the duvet, so that when Ruth was ready for bed, she climbed in the other side, and allowed herself to lie close to him.

She'd woken through the night needing to go to the toilet, and she'd had to disengage herself from Harry's arms, which were wrapped around her, his mouth near her ear. When she had returned to bed, he'd been awake.

"I needed to pee," she'd said, climbing back under the covers, and inching closer to him. "Are you alright?" she'd asked him, noticing him watching her. "Does your head hurt?"

"No. My head's fine. No pain …... other than a dull ache, but I've spent the best part of my adult life with a sore head."

"I'm not talking about any self-inflicted pain, Harry."

"Neither am I," he'd replied, before he leaned across the bed and kissed her.

The kiss was gentle and sweet, which was just what Ruth needed. She rolled against him, her back against his chest, and murmured when she felt his arms again surround her. It was during the night on that first night together that they began to talk.

"It's clear to me now that I shouldn't have asked you to marry me when I did." Harry's voice is little more than a whisper, his breath lifting the hair in the top of Ruth's head. "I know we should have begun …... where we're beginning now."

"We needed to at least have dated a few times," Ruth replies, turning her head a little so that her words were not lost on the night air. "We know one another at work so well, but …..."

"We don't know yet whether the other snores, or -"

"I don't snore," Ruth had said quickly.

"Everyone says that. I'm told I do."

"I haven't heard you snoring, Harry."

"That's because you've been asleep. I'm sorry that I had to get …... knocked out in order for us to get …... closer."

"Harry …... I'm not against the idea of marrying you."

"You're not?"

"Of course not. It's just that …..."

"I chose the worst possible moment to suggest it."

"You did."

"I'd like to go back to that day and do it all differently."

"I wouldn't. We're no good at doing normal things in a normal way. We need to create our own way of doing things. We just need to be …... more open …... with one another."

Ruth had waited for Harry to reply, but she felt his steady breathing, as his arms relaxed around her, no longer clinging to her as though she were his own rescue raft. Harry had fallen asleep, but at least they'd made a start.

* * *

They repeat their first night in Ruth's bedsit the following night. After a light dinner, they share a bath, and then climb into bed to talk. Harry has not taken any pain killers since breakfast, and he swears he no longer needs them.

"My head feels fine," he says, when Ruth questions him.

"There's a part of me is suspicious of your motives," she says, moving closer to him under the duvet.

He smiles at her, and puts his arms around her waist, drawing her closer to him. "Did you notice any part of me move while we were in the bath?"

"Apart from your hands, you mean?"

"That's hardly fair. I'm just …... interested in your body. I didn't notice you complaining."

"I had no cause to." They exchange a few chaste kisses, and then Ruth turns so that she nestles against him, her back against his chest. They lay together in bed, not speaking, for several minutes. Ruth is sure she can feel him swelling against her buttocks. "Harry," she says, "did you stop taking the medication because it was making you impotent?"

"That's rather a direct question, Ruth."

"It's not a lot different from asking you whether your head still hurts."

"If I say yes, it makes me sound like a man who is …... desperate for sex."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Desperate for sex."

"No, I'm not. I enjoy sex, and I look forward to when we do it, but I am capable of waiting for you. I like …... the way my body feels when I'm aroused by you. I hated feeling nothing. I felt like an old man who is past it."

"I can't imagine that day ever happening," she muses, turning in his arms, and sliding her arms around his neck. She keeps a safe distance between them while she places her lips on his. Their kiss is briefly passionate, and Harry pulls her close to his body, where she feels how much he desires her. Cheeky devil!

"It's alright, Ruth," he says between quick kisses. "I'm not about to force myself on you. I'm not a twenty-year-old. I don't have to act on it, but I enjoy feeling …... this alive."

He pulls her closer, so that there is no doubt in Ruth's mind that he is fully aroused. She pulls her head away so that she can look him in the eye.

"So …... if you don't want sex …... why stop taking your medication?"

He smiles widely, something he does so seldom. "I stopped the medication because it makes me drowsy, and I wanted to see whether I still need it."

"And do you?"

"I can manage without it."

"In other words, you have a headache."

"Just a small one. Nothing I haven't experienced before."

Ruth watches his face, and waits, lifting one eyebrow in a question. Under the duvet, her hand has found his, and their fingers move against one another in a dance of exploration.

"I have no intention of making love to you in this bed, Ruth. I'd rather wait until we're in either your bed or mine." She smiles at him before he continues. "And it will happen, Ruth. No more excuses. No more running from me …... from us."

Using her free hand, Ruth lifts three fingers vertically, while holding down her little finger using her thumb. "Scout's honour," she says.

"That only means something if you've been a scout."

"My step-brother was a scout for a few years. He used to make me make my promises using scout's honour. Mostly, I'd put my other hand behind my back, and cross my fingers. That way I didn't mean it, so I could break my promise."

"Are you crossing your fingers now, Ruth?"

"Hardly. I want …... this …... us." Ruth sighs heavily, as she lays her head back on to her pillow.

Harry leans over her, and kisses her, his lips soft and gentle. "I want it also. Now we have to sleep."

Ruth lifts her free hand, and slides it down Harry's jaw to his chin. "Goodnight, Harry," she says.

Harry is almost asleep when he is sure he hears Ruth say, `I love you.' "I love you too, Ruth," he says, just before he slips into a deep sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Meeting room – The Grid, Thames House, London – 4 days later:

"Are there any questions?" Harry asks his team, now slightly diminished, due to Ros' `death', and Ruth being late on her first day back from leave.

Harry fills in his team on the events that had occurred in Warwickshire. His team appear to accept it without question.

"Will Ros come back to us?" Lucas asks, with a nonchalance that doesn't fool Harry.

"I don't know. I need to contact her …... some time. For the time being, she and the former Home Secretary are to be considered dead."

"Nicholas Blake's body has been found," Beth says quietly, her eyes on Harry.

"Yes," Harry replies. "His death was …... unfortunate."

"I can't see anyone wanting that job, then," Dimitri Levendis quips, a smile on his face.

"Our new Home Secretary is William Towers. I have a meeting with him this afternoon. I believe he's a good man."

"They're all good men to begin with," Lucas muses.

"Sorry I'm late."

All eyes look up to see Ruth breeze into the room. She smiles at everyone, but avoids Harry's eyes. They've barely managed more than a few brief phone conversations in the three days since they returned together to London, chiefly because Harry has been at meetings for much of the time he has been back. As usual, their relationship has had to be put on hold. Harry gazes at her, no longer caring if his interest in her is noted.

"Ruth, can you stay behind? The rest of you are dismissed."

"But, Harry, there's still -"

"Later, Tariq. I need to debrief Ruth."

Tariq leaves to room, closing the door behind him.

"That's an interestingly prophetic word for …... what we still have to do, Harry."

Harry is not especially amused. Perhaps the reason he and Ruth had not until now got together is because his job generally drains everything he has – his mind, his energy, even his body – so he seldom has anything in reserve for her …. for them. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between two fingers, closing his eyes as he does so.

Ruth sits in the chair beside him, and after a quick glance towards the door, she puts her hand on his back, and begins a gentle, circular movement over the middle of his back with her open palm. He opens his eyes, and looks at her …... _really_ looks at her.

"I've been neglecting you, and I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"I find it interesting that we had more time for one another in the middle of that operation than we do when we're back here."

"I want that to change, Ruth."

"So do I. Can I come around tonight?" She can hardly invite him to hers …... not with Beth being there.

"Of course you can." Harry opens his jacket, and takes a key card from the inside pocket, and hands it to Ruth. "I've had this in my safe at home, and I've been meaning to give it to you. When I had the new security system put in, I was given two cards …... one for me, and one for …... my `better half', the installation guy said."

"Thank you," Ruth says, picking up the card, and turning it over. "So ….. I'm your better half."

"Always." His gaze is so intense, that Ruth has to look down at the card. "It's yours," he continues. "I want you to keep it. I'd also like it if you come to my place tonight. I'd _really_ like it if you stayed the night …... it being Friday."

"Will you be working tomorrow?"

"I'll probably put in a few hours, but not until the afternoon. I've spent every waking hour of the past three days either on the Grid, or in a meeting. I think I can manage a night and a morning with you."

Knowing this will most likely be the only time they spend alone before that evening, Ruth reaches up with her hand, and cups his jaw. Harry reads her signal, and leans towards her to kiss her. It is a chaste, but rather lengthy kiss …... for a Grid-stolen kiss, that is.

"Now …... I have to do some work," she says, getting up, and placing one last brief kiss on his temple before she leaves the room.

Harry smiles at her parting back, wondering how it is even possible that this remarkable woman loves him.

* * *

Ruth had let herself into Harry's house, knowing that she has a keycard entry to his house for this very reason. In her carry-all, she has clothes enough for the weekend, and for work on Monday. So …... she and Harry are about to spend the weekend together …... three nights and two days. It will be the first proper test of their compatibility. Her first decision is where to put her bag – in the spare room, or in Harry's room. He'd told her to make herself at home, so she climbs the stairs, and opens all the doors off the hallway, until she comes to the room at the very end. This one is clearly Harry's room. There is a queen size bed, neatly made, and the room smells of Harry – his unique combination of soap and cologne, and underlying it all is his natural body smell. Ruth puts her hold-all on the floor just inside the doorway, but to the side.

By the time Harry comes home, it has gone 9 o'clock, and Ruth has eaten a serving of the beef and vegetable soup she'd prepared. She sits with Harry as he eats his soup, along with three slices of buttered toast. When he has finished, he sits back in his chair, and looks at her.

"Thank you, Ruth. I was famished."

"Clearly."

"Towers – the new HS – has instructed me – and you, if you'd like – to visit Andrew Lawrence. He'd do it himself, but he'd rather someone who has a history with Lawrence. I thought I'd wait until Andrew is out of the clinic. I rang Ros, and she has suggested we both visit them in two weeks. She sounded rather …..."

"What?"

"If I didn't know her better, I'd say that Ros sounded smug."

"Oh, I think Ros and smugness are regular buddies. Are she and Andrew …...?"

"I didn't ask, but it's unlike Ros to be as caring of someone in her personal life unless she is emotionally attached to them. She can be very protective of those she cares about, as I found out after the Havensworth conference back in 2006, when she bawled me out about her father's gaol sentence. Alternatively, she may simply be keeping an eye on him."

Harry tidies the kitchen, while Ruth prepares a bath for them, finding some fresh towels in the airing cupboard. They climb into the bath together, and this time there is no embarrassment about naked flesh. They each openly assess the body of the other, and then exchange smiles of pleasure and approval. As they had done while in Nuneaton, Ruth leans back against Harry's chest, and he encircles her with his arms, briefly kissing her cheek near her ear.

They speak little, and after ten minutes or so, Ruth feels Harry relax, his arms suddenly heavy against her, and his breathing becoming deeper and slower. He has fallen asleep.

Ruth leaves him be until the water cools. She then gets herself out of the bath, dries and dresses herself for bed, and then wakes him, and helps dry him, and then dress him in track pants and a t shirt. He speaks little, and Ruth knows him well enough to recognise that he is in need of at least ten hours sleep. She helps him into bed, and then kisses him goodnight, before she puts on her bathrobe, and heads downstairs to watch some TV.

* * *

There is the barest glow of pre-dawn light from the bedroom window when Ruth feels Harry's arms snake around her waist. She had been in that pre-waking slumber state, where dreams are the only reality there is. No sooner does she remember that Harry and she are sharing his bed, and that this is occurring in their real lives, than she is awake. She places her hands over Harry's hands, both of which are sliding under her t shirt towards her breasts. She slowly turns in the bed so that she is facing him. His face is close to hers, and he appears fully awake.

"Is this the right place, the right moment?" she asks, suddenly a little nervous.

"I believe so," he says, reaching out and gliding a thumb from her cheekbone, all the way around the line of her jaw, up her chin, and to her lips.

Harry's thumb gently traces the line of her lips, while she watches him, drinking in the details of his face. Neither wants to be the one to push things further, to appear greedy. There is immense enjoyment to be had in anticipating what is to come.

Very carefully, Ruth reaches out and places her hand behind Harry's head, her palm against the side of his neck. She then winds her index finger through his hair – around and around – until she can feel the bare skin beneath. She rests her fingertips on the skin of his neck, and slides them downwards, her skin barely touching his. His eyes hold hers, and then he shudders as her fingers trace the skin of his neck, and around to his throat.

It is Ruth who reaches up to kiss him, and it is Harry who relaxes against her as the kiss becomes less tender, more intense. Harry winds his arms around her, and pulls her against him, as she lifts his t shirt with her fingers. Ruth thinks it's time his shirt came off. What follows is a flurry of hands under clothing, pushing, pulling, lifting, until they are both naked …... together …... under Harry's duvet.

Harry pushes down the duvet to expose their upper bodies. "I need to see you," he says.

Ruth feels him push his knee between her legs, so that her growing heat rests on his bare thigh. She hears a moaning, and realises that it comes from her own throat. Opening her eyes, she sees Harry watching her, pupils fully dilated, gazing at her with wonderment, lust, love, and everything in between.

How could she have thought him to be too shut down, too emotionally stunted to be her lover? Maybe she is the emotionally stunted one.

"You can't possibly know how long I've been dreaming of this, going through it in my mind when I'm meant to be in a meeting, or trying to fall asleep." He then leans down and takes one nipple in his mouth, running his tongue around it, while he repeats the action with his fingers on her other nipple.

All Ruth is capable of doing is running her hands all over his body. When she is satisfied she has touched him everywhere from the waist and above, she moves her hands downwards, firstly over and around his buttocks, and then to the front of him, where she feels his heat, his desire, his size, his immense strength. He is ready for her, and it surprises her to admit that she is also ready for him.

She is about to say, `Let's get this over with," but stops herself just in time. It's just that there has been such a buildup – years – and they have each anticipated this moment for every one of these years, each believing that it would never happen for them.

"Are you ready, Ruth?" he whispers against her skin. "I'm …... I can't wait much longer."

There are no fancy moves, nor awkward positions. Ruth rolls on to her back, and he hovers above her, his weight on his elbows.

When they come together – rather slowly and carefully – there are tears, his as well as hers. And then he begins to move inside her, slowly at first. He needs to set up a steady rhythm, and not finish off quickly, as he may once have done, when he was younger. Ruth matters. He loves her. He is loving her. At last.

Nothing about their first time is perfect …... other than it happened, and neither had believed it ever would. They lie together afterwards, arms loosely around the other, both unable to speak. Sometimes – at times like this – there are just not enough words in the English language to describe their joy.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: This is the final chapter. Thanks to all who have read this, and especially to those who took time to review.**_

* * *

A cottage near the Kent coast, UK – 2 weeks later:

Ruth and Andrew stand together by the large window which provides a view of the back garden. They have talked, and are enjoying a natural lull in their conversation.

"April showers," Andrew says at last. "My father used to sing that song. When I was little. Something about April showers bringing daffodils, or lillies ….. I can't remember which."

Ruth smiles up at Andrew. She rather likes him, and can see why Ros Myers – rather suddenly, it seems – has attached herself to this man's life. He is steady and stable, and even a bit dull - so unlike Lucas North. He may also be not altogether on the level – which, Ruth suspects, is a lot like Lucas.

"Daffodils always reminds me of Wordsworth," Ruth says quietly.

"I wonder what they're talking about. They always seem to have so much to say to one another." Andrew is referring to Harry and Ros, who are sitting in the summer house, the door open, but out of the rain. Ros sits with her back straight, her supportive crutch leaning against the seat beside her, while Harry leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "I've asked Ros, and she says that she and Harry respect one another."

"They do. Harry was …... devastated when he believed Ros had died. I don't really know what they talk about, although I suspect Harry is picking Ros' brain over some operational issue."

"I thought he did that with you." Andrew's face suddenly becomes serious, which is unusual. He so often wears the ghost of a smile around his mouth, and at the corners of his eyes.

"He does, but with our personal relationship, we make an effort to drop MI-5 once we step through the door at the end of the day."

"Quite right, too." Andrew passes the back of his hand under his chin in a nervous gesture. "I'm quite looking forward to …... leaving the UK."

"Will your families – parents – know where you'll be living?"

"Er … no. My mother is dead, and my father believes I died in the hotel bombing. I don't think he could deal with me still being alive …... especially after almost seven weeks …... so ….. I've decided to let things remain as they are. It's …... a lot easier that way. Should Ros's father be released from gaol early, then we might consider making a trip back, but …..."

"When you go, you'll be gone for good."

"Yes." Andrew smiles down at her. "Ros is still waiting to have her knee operated on, so it will be at least a couple of months before we can leave. Our legends are being created as we speak. I've chosen the name James Mellor. James after my father, and Mellor was my mother's maiden name. Not very creative, I know."

"And Ros?"

"Mrs Mellor." Andrew laughs self-consciously. "Roslyn Mellor. She detests the name Rosalind, but refuses to get rid of Ros. I had to agree with her."

"I can't imagine Ros being anything other than Ros."

"No. Neither can I. I can't for the life of me see what she sees in me."

"You're polar opposites. Sometimes that's a good thing in a relationship."

"What's this I hear?"

Ros and Harry have taken advantage of a break in the rain, and have entered the conservatory via a side door. Ros smiles at Andrew, and Harry comes to stand beside Ruth, moving his hand in an unconscious gesture until it rests on the small of her back.

"Andrew's been telling me about your legends."

"Yes, well, my main role is to look after Andrew, and ensure he'll not be kidnapped by someone wanting him to spill sensitive state secrets."

Ruth watches Ros and Andrew interact. She is still not entirely sure of the nature of Andrew's and Ros's relationship …... part love affair, part minder and minded.

She brings it up with Harry once they have finished dinner, and are both preparing for bed. They have been given the spare bedroom, with a window which provides a view over the back garden, and beyond, to the sea in the distance.

"You know, Harry …... I envy their youth and their enthusiasm."

"So says old Mother Time."

Harry has just entered the room, having washed, and cleaned his teeth. He begins removing his clothes, when Ruth sidles closer, and slowly begins opening his shirt buttons. When his shirt is open, she places her hands so that her palms cover his skin, and she leans close to him, to gently kiss his chest, right over his heart.

"How did they know we'd want a room together?" Ruth asks, lifting her head from Harry's chest.

Harry smiles down at her as he remembers his conversation with Ros on the matter.

"Ros said something like, `You and Ruth will have to sleep in the same room, and in the same bed, and if you're not up to that yet, then it's high time you were.'"

"By Ros' standards, that's a caring comment and observation."

Harry reaches down to kiss her gently on the lips.

"Do you want a younger man, Ruth?"

"What?" She looks up at him, clearly confused. "Why do you say that?"

"Andrew. He's in rather good shape."

Andrew had spent the day dressed in skinny black jeans, and a body-hugging long-sleeved t-shirt. Ruth is reminded of how Danny Hunter had dressed.

"I prefer your shape, Harry. There's more of you to love."

They have both climbed into bed, and are lying close together, their arms loosely around the other, when Ruth re-visits the topic of Ros and Andrew.

"Do you think their relationship is sexual?" she asks quietly, while with one finger she scribes abstract shapes on the skin of Harry's forearm as it rests on top of the covers.

"I haven't asked. Would you be game to ask Ros whether she's shagging the former HS?"

"No, but I thought you might be. They're sharing a bedroom. I saw them go into the front bedroom together."

"It's possible that they have a celibate relationship. It's possible they are simply putting on a front, living their legends. It's possible Andrew is gay."

"_Really_?" Ruth says, pulling a little away from Harry so that she can look at his face.

"I said `possible', not likely. I think he prefers women. Just because he's in his mid-30's and unmarried, it doesn't mean he's gay."

"I'm glad you're not gay, Harry."

"At this very moment, so am I," he smiles into her eyes, before kissing her, a long and passionate kiss.

"I don't think we should be having sex tonight, Harry. We should wait until we're home."

"I know."

They lie together quietly for a few minutes. Harry can tell by the slight tension in Ruth's body that she is thinking.

"I envy Ros and Andrew being able to begin again somewhere else," she says quietly after some time.

"So do I. I'd like to do that some day …... with you …... but with the option of coming home should we wish."

"And preferably before we're both too old to enjoy it."

"You mean me, don't you, Ruth? You mean before _I'm_ too old to enjoy it."

"No. I mean both of us." She turns again to watch his face, and sees his eyes turned on her. "As much as I love my job, there are days when I feel about 100 years old. I'm sure had Ros not died, and then needed to maintain the illusion of her still being dead …... I'm sure she'd still be doing battle on behalf of the service."

"What are you saying, Ruth?"

"What I'm saying is that we need to leave before we get killed …... or before one of us gets killed."

Harry is still watching her face closely, his expression serious. "You've been thinking about this, haven't you?"

"I have, but only since I discovered Andrew and Ros had survived the bombing. I think their survival is a sign."

"Of what exactly?"

"Of how tenuous life is. It's reminding us that, no matter how much we might love one another, a stray bullet, a well timed bomb, a madman with a knife …... all it takes is one moment in time, and we could be parted forever."

Ruth turns her head on the pillow to look into Harry's eyes. Above his eyes, his forehead is creased with worry.

"What?" Ruth asks.

"I …... what I'm about to tell you was told me by Ros in strictest confidence. I asked her could I share this with you, and she asked me to let you know that it must go no further."

"Alright. Deal."

"It's just that I hate keeping a secret like this from you." Harry sighs heavily, and then he quickly kisses Ruth's cheek. "Ros told me something which only she and Andrew, and a few others in government know. They are posing as husband and wife and going into deep cover long term."

Ruth waits a while, letting Harry's words sink in. "How long?"

"As long as it takes. While Andrew was still in London, and once he was sufficiently recovered, together they had several secret meetings with Towers and the Foreign Minister, and then a section head at MI6. It's impossible for them to continue their lives as before, and they're both too young to be satisfied with sitting on a Mediterranean beach somewhere, working on their tans."

"If only."

"Ros is rather excited by the prospect of doing something which will require her adopting a role long term. I think they're both looking forward to it. I'm still not sure about Andrew's role in Nightingale, but in going along with this, he's as good as pardoned from any wrong-doing."

"And you don't know where they're headed," Ruth says quietly, more a statement than a question.

"No. I don't. The fewer people who know, the better, but I have my suspicions. I think they're headed into a zone where there is regular military conflict."

Ruth is silent, projecting herself into the life which Ros and Andrew are about to enter. "I don't envy them at all," she says at last. "I couldn't do what they're about to do."

"No-one's expecting you to, Ruth, but I know they're both looking forward to it."

Ruth nestles her head into Harry's neck. "So …... what is it you have planned for us? I know you, Harry. You're sure to have a plan."

"You've already dashed my Plan A. I daren't ask you again."

"I'm thinking about it, Harry. It's not such a silly idea. I just need time to get used to it. What's your Plan B?"

"We-ell …... since Plan B involves a gag, a length of rope, and the attic in my house, I might have to scrap it, and hope you'll willingly want to live with me some day soon."

Ruth's smile is wide. "I thought I already was."

"Seven days a week, Ruth, not three or four."

"Alright, you've convinced me." Ruth lifts her face to kiss him on his cheek, but he turns at the last minute, and captures her mouth with his.

"Beginning this coming week?"

"On one condition."

"What is that?"

"I'll live with you, and I might even marry you some day, but we have to have a plan for leaving the service. I don't want us to go to work together one day, only to have one of us go home alone at the end of the day."

Harry can see that she is serious about this …... as he is also.

"That sounds like a fair deal," he says. "I think I can manage that."

"It's time, Harry."

"I know. I love you.

"I know you do. Now, let's get some sleep. We have a future to plan."

That night, Ruth dreams of she and Harry in a small house close to a brilliant blue sea, while Harry dreams of Ruth and he signing the marriage register. One day, sometime in the near future, before either of them meets a sticky end, both will have their dreams come true.


End file.
